Going to gardens in the coldest part of the year means you can experience them
in blissful silence.

Garden visiting in the winter does not loom high on many people’s agendas. “What is there to see?” is the perfectly legitimate question. And of course many gardens simply shut down between November and April. But I have long been an aficionado of visiting gardens “out-of-season”, where possible.

Why? Well, there are the obvious charms of winter-flowering or winter-scented flowers and shrubs, such as the delightful daphnes, as well as the dramatic stems of plants like dogwoods and the transformative effects of frost and snow. But more than that – and this is going to sound misanthropic – I like visiting gardens in winter because there are fewer people about.

Garden visiting can be an enjoyable communal experience, it’s true – though sometimes walking around big gardens open to the public I do wonder whether the gossiping folks are actually taking any notice of what they are walking past. Arguably, it’s possible to commune with the sense of place really effectively only when one experiences a garden in solitude. The landscape architect Kim Wilkie believes that great gardens can “speak to us” – which is a form of communication which will surely be obliterated by constant interruptions.

I used to fantasise, somewhat preciously I admit, about a garden where silence was mandatory – until I visited the naturalistic woodland garden called the Bloedel Reserve, on Bainbridge Island near Seattle. There, “guests” must book months in advance and on arrival are informed that not only are there prohibitions on cellphones, smoking and picnics (“guests may bring bottled water… small children and those with medical conditions requiring snacks may eat in the visitor center”), but that talking is to be kept to a minimum so as not to destroy the atmosphere.

I rather liked the idea of these draconian policies when I visited alone, though it transpired that asking an American to keep quiet on a garden visit is like asking a British person to go without tea and a slice of cake.

The desirability of solitude and silence in gardens was brought home recently when I dropped in on Villa Lante, at Bagnaia, north of Rome, that great Renaissance garden of terraces linked by water. I parked the car, paid for my ticket and walked up the steps to the iron gates – only to find them locked. Turning around, I found the ticket lady coming up the steps after me, brandishing a large key. It was true: I was the only visitor.

What followed was one of the great garden experiences of my life. It was a cold January morning and some of the celebrated water channels and dancing pools had frozen over, enhancing the impression that I entered a realm that was somehow suspended out of time – of this world but also not of it. As I ascended the terraces, each new level presented itself as if for the first time ever, and to me alone. I have visited Villa Lante on several other occasions (always in summer) but gardens have this ability to remake themselves anew each time you come.

Without the chatter and presence of other visitors, I could stand for many minutes gazing at the flowing rills, the lines of sculpted urns, the grey-green box hedges and the cardinal’s great banqueting table that stands at the heart of the design. In a garden where scale and proportion is so important, the hard, bright winter sun creates definitive effects. Finally, at the lowest level, I was able to contemplate the fattening meniscus on the near-frozen fountain pools, the ice forming a skin on the water like a superfine muslin cloth lain gently across it.

Inevitably perhaps, other visitors appeared towards the end of my time in the garden, but that did not sully the experience. The garden had had its opportunity to speak to me – and it could only have happened in winter.